


Now is Not the Time

by mldrgrl



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heavy Angst, no seriously, very much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 17:44:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16330673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: On-the-run era angst.  Things are not going well.





	Now is Not the Time

Things are not going well, and it isn’t any wonder.  No one ever said going on the run and hiding from the law was easy.  No one ever said that being with your partner every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week was easy.  

 

The first few weeks they clung to each other in their fear and grief.  The unknown brought them closer together before it began to drive them apart.  The pain and loneliness of their forced separation only months ago is a distant memory and all Mulder wants is an hour to himself. 

 

They haven’t been in the same place for more than four days in over three months, moving every which way across the country, east to west, north to south.  There’s no destination in mind. Other than keeping moving, they don’t know what else to do. 

 

They keep vampire hours.  Days are spent sleeping and nights are spent driving.  They alternate shifts under the cover of rest stops. They take back roads as much as possible.  They stick to motels that accept cash and ask no questions.

 

Back in the old days, when a road trip was just a means to get them from case to case, they rarely kept the radio on.  There were usually theories to debate and files to discuss and background noise was a distraction. Now, though, the radio is perpetually on.  Whoever’s in the passenger seat will change the station when they lose range and the speakers crackle with more static than music, choosing the first thing that comes through without discussion.  They barely discuss anything.

 

Tonight, the extent of their conversation has gone like this:

 

“Where are we going?” Scully asks, as Mulder starts the car.

 

It takes him a long time to answer because he doesn’t know and he’s so tired of not knowing.  He feels incompetent and utterly useless. “I don’t know,” he finally says, just like he’s said nearly every night he’s gotten into the driver’s seat.  He doesn’t know. He just  _ doesn’t know _ .

 

She sighs. And thus ends their conversation for the night.

 

Hours later, fuel tank running low, he starts looking for gas stations.  He doesn’t like how brightly lit the first one he happens upon is, but he doesn’t have a lot of options.  Scully doesn’t ask if he wants anything from the convenience store, she just opens the door when he stops at one of the pumps, and heads inside.

 

He’s only got five dollars of gas pumped into the tank when another car rolls into the station and parks in front of the store.  He watches as two men exit the vehicle and his palms start to sweat. His heart rate picks up and he has to put a hand on the hood of the car to steady himself.  They’re Feds. He’s sure of it. The way they walk, the way they casually glance around the empty lot that isn’t actually casual at all, the way one of them unconsciously holds his hand at his hip as though he’s ready for something to happen.

 

Mulder keeps his head down, but his eyes lifted towards the men.  He watches them walk inside and pass behind Scully as she stands at the refrigerators along one side of the store.  He pulls the nozzle from the gas tank and hooks it back on the pump, trying to be nonchalant, trying not to attract attention.  The only thing he can do is wait.

 

When he slips back into the car, he realizes his knees are shaking.  He rubs the trail of his goatee down from the sides of his mouth to his chin, hoping his weak facial hair and Scully’s mousy brown hair are enough of a disguise to let them get away.  If it was a small town deputy that had pulled up for a late night coffee, he wouldn’t bat an eyelash, but Feds are a different story. Surely the bureau has circulated their photos. Surely someone with special training would be able to see through their facade.

 

“Come on,” he whispers to himself, hands clenched around the top of the steering wheel.  “Come on, come on, come on.”

 

Scully is at the register and the Feds are walking up behind her.  Mulder tenses and tries to determine what his split second decision will be.  They’ve talked about this, and she was adamant that he save himself if it comes down to it, but he knows he will never be able to leave her behind.  If they stop her, he’ll be out of the car in a flash. He can’t let her take the fall.

 

Without a backwards glance, Scully finishes at the register and exits the store.  She meets Mulder’s eyes through the passenger door window and holds his gaze as she walks towards him in a steady gait.  He wants to start the car, rev the engine, and peel out of the parking lot as soon as she opens the door, but he stays patient and keeps his hands off of the keys in the ignition.

 

“Drive,” she whispers to him, as soon as she gets in the car.  Her chest is heaving with shallow breaths as she attempts to buckle her seatbelt.  She’s just as rattled as he is and it makes him feel a little less paranoid, but it’s the worst possible thing to feel validated about right now.

 

An hour later, after putting as much distance between them and the gas station as possible, after constant checking of the rear view mirror, Mulder feels like he can finally breathe a little easier.  He can’t be certain they’re out of the clear, but they haven’t seen another car for miles and it’s pitch black outside, he’s confident he’d be able to spot a tail if there was one.

 

Scully hasn’t said anything.  She’s been checking over her shoulder and her side mirror at regular intervals.  The can of diet soda she purchased at the gas station has gone forgotten, sweating in the cupholder between their seats almost as profusely as they have.

 

A motel becomes visible in the distance, the sign at the side of the road like a neon arm waving them closer.  Mulder slows the car. They’re driving towards daylight and it’s a good time to stop to rest. He’s wired, but he’s also fighting a headache and his muscles are starting to seize from tension.

 

“I can drive,” Scully says, just as he pulls onto the gravel turnout to the motel.  There’s a waver of fear in her voice. 

 

“I think we’re in the clear.  I think...we should lay low for a couple days.”  

 

Mulder can tell by the way that Scully looks at him that she disagrees.  Her eyes narrow a little and she licks her mouth. She turns to stare straight ahead out the windshield.  He wants to say something to reassure her, but there’s nothing to say.

 

He parks the car in a space in front of the manager’s office.  A lamp is on in the window. Before he gets out of the car, he assesses the surroundings.  The motel is an L-shaped single level building of about a dozen or so rooms. The lot is gravel and one side of it is spacious enough to hold several semis, but there’s only one parked there tonight.  All the rooms are dark, but only two have the shades drawn. Of the two occupied rooms, he can see the glow of a television framing the curtains. He suspects they don’t get much traffic here, which makes it highly appealing as a place to stay.

 

Mulder goes alone into the manager’s office.  The manager is a small, pot-bellied man in a faded cardigan and chewing tobacco stuffed into the pocket of his cheek.  When the bell above the door announces Mulder’s presence, the rotund man shuffles out from behind a beaded curtain with the swell of a laugh track from a sitcom behind him and steps up to the front desk.  

 

No questions asked, Mulder requests a room for two nights and pays cash.  The manager spits into a plastic cup as Mulder signs the first name he can think of into the guest book, Alan Parsons.  He collects the key and heads back to the car. Scully has sunken low in her seat, her shoulder and temple against the door.  Any other time he’d say it was due to exhaustion, but tonight he knows she’s trying to hide.\ and stay vigilant at the same time.

 

Room 6 is the last room on the strip, which suits Mulder fine.  He backs into the space in front of the door and kills the lights.  They sit in silence for the next few moments until Scully gets out of the car.  She grabs their shared duffel bag from the back seat and waits by the door for Mulder to bring the key.

 

On impulse, and because he’s felt like he’s just had a flash of what life would be like if they were to be separated, he brings his hand to the small of her back as he opens the door.  The move stops them both because it’s been weeks since they’ve purposefully touched one another. She looks up at him, breathing hard.

 

“Scully,” he says.  “I…”

 

She touches his chest and curls her fingers, bunching his t-shirt into a loose fist over his heart.  The duffel bag is dropped inside and the door is kicked shut. They don’t speak. She lights a lamp while he draws the curtains.  Shoes are the only thing shed before they’re on each other and rolling across the mattress in a fight for dominance. He lets Scully win only long enough to straddle his hips and pull her shirt off before he has her underneath him and she claws at his back to bring up his shirt.

 

Neither of them think about slowing down or savoring the reconnection.  Their teeth clash and lips are bitten. They’ll be scratched and bruised before it’s over, but they don’t care.  It’s not even that they’re turned on, per se, it’s that they both have a desperate, wild need to unleash their anxieties upon each other.  Mulder has a fleeting thought that at least they’re on the same page for once.

 

It’s bad, the worst it’s ever been because it’s angry and violent and painful and unfulfilling, but they can’t stop.  It’s an ugly battle that no one will win and ends only when all the pent up hostility has deflated and their energy is spent.  The air in the room is humid from their sweat and harsh breathing. His skin feels dewy from exertion. It disgusts him.

 

Mulder rolls up and sits on the side of the bed.  He takes a glance back at Scully. Her hips are angled away from him, legs closed and bent.  One arm dangles off the edge of the mattress and the other is folded over her head, hiding her face.

 

He wants to apologize, but he isn’t exactly sorry.  He wants to confess what he’s been having a hard time even admitting to himself; that he can only hate her so much because he loves her, and it’s not really her that he hates, it’s himself.  But, also, it  _ is _ her.  He hates her right now because she loves him too much to leave him.  And he loves her too much to make her go.

 

With a grimace, Mulder gets up and goes to the bathroom.  He splashes water onto his gaunt face and runs a hand down his goatee.  He cleans himself up and then soaks a washcloth in cool water for Scully.  She hasn’t moved since he left her. He places the rag in her limp hand and crosses the room to retrieve the duffel bag.

 

He has a fresh pair of boxers in his hand when she says his name.  He turns around and she’s raised the arm above her head so he can see her face.

 

“Do you still want to marry me?” she asks.

 

He’s startled by the question.  It’s one of, if not the most unexpected thing to ever come out of her mouth.  He stares dumbfounded at her for a few moments and then nods his head ever so slightly.

 

“Of course I do,” he says.  “You know I do.”

 

Her gaze is unreadable, but it’s fixed on his face and she doesn’t look away.  

 

“Are you asking?” he asks.

 

She nods and he breathes deep.  He starts calculating the time it would take to drive to Vegas, what to do about the marriage license, how they could get around legalities and such, and then his heart sinks.

 

“I suppose if we were caught,” he says.  “Spousal privilege would be pretty convenient.”

 

Scully’s eyes dart low and then back up again.  She licks her upper lip. “You were ten seconds away from running into that convenience store,” she says.

 

“Only if it was obvious they’d recognized you.”

 

“We agreed.”

 

“And you really think I could leave you behind?”

 

“If it’s worth your life.”

 

“Well, the joy of conjugal visits aside, I’d rather drive back to that gas station and turn myself in right now than have you marry me just for legal benefits.”

 

“Do you know how much of a risk it would be for any other reason?”

 

“It wasn’t a risk a year ago.”

 

“Things were…”

 

“Don’t say different.”

 

“You’d just been through an ordeal.  Mulder, you were  _ dead _ .”

 

“Being dead didn’t make me any less in love with you.”

 

“You wouldn’t even touch me.”

 

“Scully, one day I was looking up at bright lights in Oregon and the next you were at the end of a pregnancy with a new partner.  And you said nothing.  _ Nothing _ .”

 

Scully turns her head towards the wall.  Mulder stands in silence, clenching the pair of boxer shorts in his hand.  It occurs to him how ridiculous it is, having an argument about marriage at 6 a.m. in a dingy motel, stark naked.  It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad. He pulls on his shorts and then sits down at the edge of the bed and holds his head in his hands.

 

“I used to think...I used to think nothing could break us,” he says.  “They tried to tear us apart so many times, and failed every time.”

 

He waits for a response, but gets none.  Cold, lonely, and heartbroken, he lays down with his back to Scully and stares at the drapes across the window.  The grey glow of morning seeps around the edges of the curtains. He knows this darkness is killing them, but he doesn’t know what to do about it.

 

The End


End file.
